Padam
by thiskatkicks
Summary: A story of Quatre's genius, Trowa's observations, Édith Piaf's music, and a few very complicated relationships. Quatre-centric, 3X4 and alternating POVs. Please read and review!
1. Padam

This is a story I wrote to the song "Padam, Padam", by Edith Piaf. It originally started as a one shot, then a one shot with a sequel, then a one shot with a sequel with another follow up, and then after that I had an idea for ANOTHER follow up so my friend convinced me to just turn it into a god damn chapter story. So I apologize to all the people who have read and decided the other story is one of their favorites, and would like to request them to favorite/comment on this one instead (I'll make a note on the other story too, promise). So I'll stop talking now, and here is the original story "Padam" with the follow up "Rien de rien" as well as the rest of it. Enjoy.

And special thanks to Emily and Alyssa for helping me brainstorm and being all around awesome folks.

Disclaimer: I do not own GW or those characters. This story however is all mine. Nor do I own the song "Padam Padam" which is a song by Édith Piaf.

_"This melody you will hear_

_follows me everywhere I go._

_I hear it when I am sad_

_and especially when I am glad._

_It seems to mock me from my past sins._

_It taunts me._

_And it is driving me crazy._

_Padam."_

_- Édith Piaf_

My sisters and I had grown up speaking Arabic, and although they had gone straight to the English language for practicality's sake, my father had given me a small detour in between the two. French. It made perfect sense, the Arabic world had always had close ties to the French and although English was more sensible my father had argued French was more philosophical, closer to government, _plus intelligent_. It could be, however, he just wanted me to know my name. Quatre.

_Mon Dieu._

Any beginner student of French knows _quatre_ is the word for the number four. Most people assume it was my father's ignorance which brought him to my name, possibly that he had no idea of French - a business man obsessed only with the factors of money and not with matters of culture. This assumption would be wrong.

I had always rationed that since French was so much more philosophical, closer to government, and _plus intelligent_, there had been another reason - a deeper meaning to my name, perhaps I cried four times when I was born; perhaps my father had been visited by four spirits when roaming the deserts of his father's father in his youth; perhaps my mother had taken four deep breathes before her death. Or perhaps, I should enjoy the mystery of it all - keep in good faith my father gave me a stupid name for a reason. After all, that alone is the reason I remember her.

The little girl.

The little girl who disappeared.

I hear nowadays they call her _Padam._

Her father had always been elated that I'd known French. It would be much easier - that way - to marry me to his daughter. He would have talked my father into it too, had she not disappeared, and I wouldn't have looked at her twice had she not inquired about my name. These were the days before my realization - as I like to call it. Before I realized I should have been proud of my existence, whether or not my father had used me as a puppet, when I still carried the anger of being primped and paraded around - showed off and polished as the heir of Winner Enterprise. The life of a rich child is so difficult, I had then rationalized.

So when she asked me why my name was _quatre_, I don't believe I even bothered to answer. I don't remember answering, at least. What I do remember though, is her father speaking with my father in English, with a very good British accent and only a hint of French coming out when he pronounced the letter 'r'.

"Isn't it lovely," he said to my father, "that our children can get along? Isn't it grand? You know my daughter has a lovely singing voice and she's in ballet. I hear Quatre plays the piano, perhaps they could do a duet?"

But his words were different, and I could hear what he was saying under the up and down of his British accent and hacked French 'r'. Please take my daughter, his words meant, marry her to your son. Give her to your son, our money is dwindling and she needs to be provided for, the French are _contre-rich, _times are changing - I'm worried.

"Yes, yes," were my father's words, "a duet would be lovely. And it would be good for Quatre to use his French. Did you know he also speaks Spanish and Italian? I'm advising him to learn latin too, its a dead language of course but necessary none the less"

The translation of that being: Your old name has my interest peaked, but my son isn't going that easy. What else do you have to offer?

"Oh _ma petite_ is speaking English like she's a native speaker, now she's moving onto Japanese. You know, Spanish and Italian are just far to similar to French. I'd like for her to have a good foundation in Eastern languages too. Lets not forget the Greek lessons of course."

My daughter has so much to offer. She's well educated but not more so then your son, just to make sure he doesn't feel over-shadowed and decide he doesn't like her. And look at her mother, her beautiful mother, my daughter will look like that too someday, more so I believe.

"Oh Quatre studied Greek a while ago, perhaps three or four years. But to be fair your daughter is a bit younger."

So many people want their daughters for my son. I'm not sold yet.

"Young, but very smart I'd like to believe."

I'll throw in two goats and a hen if they marry.

Who ever thought the rich were civilized never ran into the match-making problem that comes along with the money, a practice that will never go out of style. I dissected their conversation, the man selling his child as if she were a car - with all the features and technology of a human person. I wondered then, if the little girl next to me even realized her father was gambling for her future. Thats when she asked me, after tugging on my shirt-sleeve to catch my attention, and the words came out of her pouted lips.

"_Quatre c'est un nombre. Pourquoi tes parents t'ont donné un nombre pour un nom?_"

As I've said, I don't remember my response - if I even had one. Perhaps I explained to her there was a much deeper meaning to my name, the four spirits which visited my father in the deserts or the four deep breathes before my mother's death.

But, knowing how much of a brat I was, I probably didn't acknowledge her.

"_Ma mère va chanter dans une minute. Tu veux écouter?_"

This time, I do remember my answer. Yes, I would like to listen to your mother sing.

She'd grabbed my hand at that point, and I could hear the heightened excitement in her father's voice - urging my father to follow to the stage, where his wife was about to sing. No doubt the man was imagining the friendship - future love - that was blossoming between his daughter and I. He was imagining things, I was just a child who wanted to hear her mother sing. I wanted to hear the voice that had granted the girl holding my hand the talent her father had boasted about, I wanted to know if - after seeing the man's wife - my father would rethink his position of my marriage to the girl holding my hand, perhaps afterwards he'd say that the girl holding my hand would be my new wife when we'd come of age, perhaps the girl holding my hand would be the mother of my children. Maybe my father would say if the girl holding my hand could sing like her mother, then she'd be the entertaining hostess her father promised. Son, he'd tell me, the girl holding your hand is beautiful and can entertain - in that lies a status boost.

If I'd heard an angel sing, I would have told it to work harder. To say I'd been impressed would have been humble, and if I had been a less spoiled child I would have cried from the beauty. The words _padam padam padam_ echoed in my head as they were sung and I'd realized the girl holding my hand had been taken back to her father, who was now twirling her around the room as if to let her replace then woman singing upon the stage. Did she know if her mother had been sold to her father like he was selling her to me, or would she forever remember only those moments of being _sa petite, sa petite poupee_? Perhaps I should have asked before the song had finished - how she would think back on these moments - perhaps I should have asked her before the lights went out, perhaps I should have asked her during the commotion that followed. I should have asked, because when the commotion ended, there was one child gone.

When the power had been cut, a voice had come from whoever had cut the power had announced the estate had been broken-into over the ballroom speakers, for everyone to remain calm and no one would be hurt. Of course when the man speaking happened to drop the word 'kidnapping', my father grabbed onto me like I held his next breath. Of course, everyone had thought that the child they were after was the most famous child in the room, of course the Winner child was the target. Of course when a scuffle was heard, they all assumed it was young Winner fighting for his freedom. Of course because the CEO of Winner Enterprise had money, power, and only one son - and he would pay more for his child then any parent in the room.

Because of course, when the lights came back on, not one person expected the little girl to be gone. No one expected the woman who sang like an angel to be screaming bloody-murder for her missing child, or the man yelling in French that his daughter had been wretch from his arms, after fighting to keep a hold on her. No one had heard the little girl crying. No one had heard her at all.

I secretly wished they'd grabbed me.

_Mon Dieu._

I don't remember how we left, but as my father pulled I could see her mother clutching her heart, I could hear her father screaming. I could feel the shadow of her palm still pressed against my hand.

It was a long time before I ever thought of her again.

I found myself in a French bar a few years after the war. I'd been there before, a bar with and entrance that led underground - a place for the rebellion _contre-Oz_, _contre la guerre, contre-rich_ - a shadow of past resistances. _La Révolution Française, La Résistance contre les Nazis. _The owner had like us then, well enough to hid us from Oz for a night, _Oz, _he said, _ne comprend pas l'importance de résistance. _And he was right, they didn't. He'd also told us if we'd happen to survive we'd always be welcome back. I took him up on the offer, alone.

I'd arrived and took a drink, the owner recognized me immediately and inquired about the others. We didn't speak long before he'd given me a second drink and directed me to a table. He joined me after a moment. We talked.

The bar was full within the hour, and as I went to take my leave the owner called me to stay.

"_Il y a une belle!" _he told me "_Une belle qui chante avec la plus jolie voix du monde._"

I sat back down, wanting to hear the beautiful woman who sang with the prettiest voice in the world, perhaps because I'd been drinking, or perhaps because it had been a long time since I'd heard a song with feeling.

The beautiful woman was, in fact, a girl in her late teens. She was skinny, like she was in need of a good meal, but her beauty shown through her features. Her pouted lips voiced the words she sang.

If I'd heard an angel sing, I would have told it to work harder. If I had been a less hardened man, I would have cried from the beauty. Or the memory: the four spirits that met my father; my mothers last breathes; the sound of a woman on stage; the twirling of a child in the arms of a father; the shadow of a palm against my hand; the words _padam padam padam_ echoing in my head.

Should I have known it was her?

Perhaps.

If her mother had been sitting next to me, I would have told her to be proud.

If her father was there, I would have told him he was right about her talent.

But instead, I asked the owner about her name.

They'd always just called her _Padam_ for the only song she could sing.


	2. Rien de Rien

This story was originally a continuation but in a separate story to the previous chapter, but as said before, I decided to combine them because I wanted to write a lot more then originally intended. Enjoy.

I don't own anything except this story, which means Édith Piaf's songs aren't mine, neither is Gundam Wing.

The title "Rien de Rien" is taken from the Édith Piaf song of the same name. It literally translates as "nothing of nothing", but has the same general meaning as "absolutely nothing".

I'm probably going to follow this up with one last story, so please tell me if you'd like for me to do that - as appreciation is always, well, appreciated :)

* * *

I wouldn't be one to argue against Quatre Reberba Winner's intelligence. I'd never, however, go so far as to say he's smart.

That is to say, he's a genius.

Of course, this is something I've known since our first meeting. This is something I only took moments to discover.

We'd been holed up in Corsica together with his forty shadows breathing down our necks: the big one just waiting for me to slip up. Holed up we may have been in all the luxury that was my host, the coffee maker was broken. The horror.

So when Quatre had politely inquired if there was anything particular I desired, and I dropped the idea of black coffee - a problem arose. He humbly apologized and asked my to take a seat while he looked into the coffee maker situation, saying he would need a moment to fix the offending appliance. I expected, as one usually does with kitchen equipment, for him to smack it once or twice, unplug it and press a few buttons, before admitting defeat and beckoning one of his shadows to fetch a new one.

But instead, he took it apart.

And put it back together.

It worked.

Yet, even though he'd spent the better part of forty minutes disassembling and remastering a coffee pot, he stared at it like it was about to do a trick. And this is when he turned to me.

"I'm terribly sorry" he began, "but would you happen to know how to make coffee?"

I did of course know how to make coffee. But instead of answering, I wondered how a man who could build the machine didn't understand how to use it. But he continued.

"You see, I don't drink coffee."

Pause.

"So I don't know how to make it."

Pause.

"I apologize. The mechanics is just so much more fascinating then the application, and as I don't really have a taste for it - I just never bothered."

Another pause.

"I know, it is rather odd I'm sure, but if you'll provide me with instruction I'll be happy to make it for you. Or if you'd rather not I could always ask one of the Magunacs to do it."

Not wishing to A) lure his small army into the cramped room or B) speak, I got up and made the coffee myself.

And Quatre watched me.

But to my knowledge, he's yet to do it himself.

My second experience with Quatre's genius took place a year after the war. Although his stunning tactical maneuvers had left little to doubt in my mind about his higher brain functioning, the similarity to our first encounter was so striking that it became a pivotal moment in my Quatre comprehension. I'd come by from the Preventers office, dropping something by at the request of Wufei, finding him in the garage working on the engine of an old car. Somewhat uncharacteristic I'm sure, but I'd come to assume all kinds of random things from Quatre most people can't seem to imagine.

I suppose it co-insides with the fact that people are always underestimating him.

He was in the drivers seat, but killed the engine just as I'd walked in.

"Trowa! So good to see you," he said politely - though I'm sure he meant it, "how have you been?"

Good.

"Do you like the car? Its a classic you see - I've only just now finished restoring it. It has a custome made six cylinder engine, still runs of gasoline. They really don't make them like this anymore. Itsbeautiful really, don't you think?"

Yes it is beautiful. And how does the drive handle?

"Oh" he bit his lip, a momentary shyness falling over him that I hadn't seen for over a year, "I must confess Trowa, I don't know how to drive a car."

I didn't respond, instead rolling my eyes over the glistening hood.

"I know," he sighed. I was always so impressed how he knows when I say nothing, "I _should_ know how to drive one, after piloting a mobile suit." He glanced over at the motorcycle in the corner, which I for one know he can drive, "It just doesn't interest me in the slightest. The mechanics happens to be far more interesting then anything else having to do with it. I'll learn someday, I'm sure."

I'm sure you will too, Quatre. But have you made any coffee recently?

Of course he hasn't.

"Well," he explained with a smile, "it's all about the interest isn't it?"

And he's right. The genius mind can only function on those things in which it discovers interest, on those things in which it can obsess. I often wonder if Quatre would wither away without his obsessions; if he didn't have his business, his music, the mysteries which keep his genius brain up for days spilled over the papers on his desk or the keys on his piano. I doubt Quatre would be able to get out of bed if those never-ending series of obsessions didn't poke at his cerebral cortex. Eventually, he'd probably just whither away.

He once confided in me his interest in his father's business. It is, not as one would assume of someone with Quatre's grander, an interest in money. Nor is it for the flourishing good it provides the community: the breathe of life it gives to the bustling economy of various colonies. He told me that, although these things are all benefits, he simple hasn't figured out what it was that held the attention of his father for so many years - an attention which eventually consumed him.

Although there is also an eighty-seven-point-three percent chance that this obsession has something to do with the massive amounts of Daddy issues he faces. I'm sure he's obsessed with those, too.

I'm half afraid that if he uncovers what it was his father was so driven by, his business will suddenly fail. I'm afraid that once he discovers the drive he's been lacking, he'll never move beyond the first paper on his desk. I know it's true because he still hasn't made coffee. His car is still in the garage.

But I've caught him playing piano, half asleep at the keys. He says there is a song stuck in his head. In the wafty tone that is Quatre-speak, this does not mean the la-di-da of the songs everyone else gets stuck with. I know, when I sit next to him on the bench, that this song has been the cause of restless nights and distractions during meetings.

Padam. Noun. The Francophone onomatopoeia for the sound a beating heart makes. The equivilent to the English thump-thump.

Padam. Proper noun. A song by Édith Piaf. A song in which she says her heartbeat is haunting her, reminding her.

Padam. Proper noun. A name a girl gave herself - or at least, a name they gave her.

I normally don't find myself jealous of Quatre's obsessions, then again his obsessions are usually things I can't talk to. Usually things I can't touch or see. And if they are, well, they usually can't touch, see, or talk back.

I just always hoped the obsession that kept Quatre guessing would be me.

Perhaps those days are over, those days in Corsica where my nameless persona provided interest. But now Quatre knows what I mean when I keep quiet. He picks up on the subtle clues even I am not aware of. Maybe, now that he gets me his obsession has finished itself. Maybe I'm the only cup of coffee he made. The coffee he made, but wouldn't drink.

Lord Byron once said - and I paraphrase of course - there is no such thing as a digression. I have a feeling I've just proved him wrong.

I am automatically interested because it hasn't been since - well, me - that Quatre has had an obsession with another human. But, what I want to know Quatre, is why is she so interesting?

His fingers stop on the keys, an audible breath escaping his lips and a glazed over look taking control of his eyes. His porcelain fingers close the keys cover. He sits, fingers throbbing against the cover as if he were trying to make his prints permanent.

"I...." his voice is barely a whisper, he clears his throat to begin again, "I believe I know her."

I nod my head. He's told be about the bar in France, and that I remember, but the girl - she I cannot recall.

"Not from the war," again, almost reading my mind, "I... I believe I know her from before that." He closes his eyes tightly, as if he fears the own words coming from his mouth.

"She - well - she was just younger the last time I saw her."

"She's from your childhood?!" An outburst for me - his eyes shoot open, shoulder seize up with another deep breathe, hand flying to his heart.

"Yes" he whispers again, "well, I think so at least. I just - I want to make sure."

I nod again. "And you won't ask her?'

"I don't believe I can. I don't think she remembers me, she was only a little girl."

I find myself wondering exactly how old she is, but he quickly corrects my thought, mentioning that he too - was a child - and he only remembers because she asked him a question.

"What did she ask?"

He smiles this time, his hand pressing harder against his heart while the other keeps its fingers firm on the keys cover.

"_Quatre c'est un nombre. Pourquoi tes parents t'ont donné un nombre pour un nom?"_

I don't speak French, Quatre

But I think I can figure out what she asked.

So I suggested that we go back. And although Quatre looked at me as if I was insane, he agreed. And although I always wonder if he'll see his obsessions through to the end, I can't stop myself from hoping that this time he won't even try. After all, he still doesn't make coffee.

I must had been distracted, because now when he's speaking next, he's asking: is something bothering me?

I respond with the only French words I can.

Whether or not it's a lie.

"_Rien de rien, Quatre." _


	3. Milord

This story is based off of the song by Édith Piaf, _Milord. _As always, I don't own Édith Piaf or Gundam Wing, this story is all mine, and thanks to Emily and Alyssa for awesome stuff. Please read and review :)

My hand automatically reaches for the cigarettes I'd placed on the nightstand yesterday morning, and my mouth responded with its own purely pavlovian reaction. Stale, the grubby taste on my tongue tells me, very very stale. I've been chain-smoking. One two three four. Four bent little sin-sticks left inside. Indeed, I have been chain-smoking.

And one two three four five. Five bottles of wine strewn across the room - some have stickers from the various _p'tit kiosk _they'd come from. I can only assume at this point that I'd decided last night to walk around drinking, as is customary in France. Why I'd brought them back of course is, at this point, completely beyond me. This must have been Trowa's doing - he's rather environmentally conscious and probably persuaded me to taking them back to my hotel room to recycle them. Having opted for a less fancy hotel, he didn't have to deal with clean up nor my inevitable _gueule de bois. _Technically drinking is against my religion and - swear to God - I usually keep to that standard. Mainly for the reason that when I do drink I tend to do it rather spectacularly and making a complete ass out of myself - ask Duo, he has the proof on film. Trowa, obviously smart enough to know this got his own hotel so he wouldn't have to deal with my epic _gueule de bois _- the hangover that would keep me in bed all day. I probably deserve it for something, I'm sure.

But my head is strangely clear, and apart from the stale taste in my mouth I don't feel the need to throw up. There are in fact, one two three for five six half-empty water glasses on various tables. Four of them being on my nightstand, the other two on the record player in the corner. Maybe Trowa doesn't agree that I deserve a hangover.

I lay on my side, savoring what I deem for the one millionth time to be my last cigarette. I've been on and off for years, and all rich people need an addiction. For my father it was work, for me cigarettes. Mine leaves me with more time and less chance of a stress induced heart-attack, so naturally I've made the right choice. My lungs of course, would propose a different argument.

I want water and for some reason it clicks inside of my head a shower would be the way to solve this problem, although my stale mouth reminds me that the intention was more along the lines of a drink. The fact that my hair smells like wine though makes me believe shower sounds better.

Wait. Why am I naked?

My eyes fall on the curled up figure beside me, burrowed under the blankets with only a tuft of brown hair escaping onto the pillow. It's all in slow motion: I stand quietly, painfully aware of my own nudity, and tip-tow around the bed. My breathing seems horribly loud, and every crack of the floor under my weight feels like its echoing inside the suite. My brain is racking through more thoughts then I assumed possible for the relatively few seconds it takes for me to reach the other side of the bed, some of them being: 'I only remember seeing Trowa last night' and 'if this is the case what the fuck is Trowa doing in my bed?' as well as 'would Trowa be so bad in bed?' - but before my inner monologue can spur itself into frenzy, I notice the tuft of brown hair escaping into the pillow is curly. One two three thick curls laid out almost strategically, as if someone had plucked them out and put them there for me to find. My stale mouth is dry and it takes all my effort to swallow. My hand acts of its own accord and my pale fingers strum through the chocolate curls, feeling their weight in my hand and having the distinctive need to bury my head in them.

Her eyes flutter open ever so lightly. Her rosy lips form the barest hint of a smile. My fingers run across her cheek.

_Mon Dieu._

I lift the white comforter, all fluff and down, away slowly - like peeling back the wrapping on a present I wasn't meant to see. And she lets me. She lets me look at her. There is a love bite on her collar bone, I want one to match.

I want her to remember me as the clean, charming, cultured, business man I am. I want her to remember me as sophisticated, elegant. I don't want her to remember the stale on my breath, or the stain of wine in my hair, I don't want her to remember me as the hot mess I am in the morning, I want this to be perfect.

But, how can I stop myself from crawling in next to her when she makes room for me? How can I control myself when her breasts fit so perfectly in my hands and she gasps when I enter her? How can I restrain myself when she's leaving marks on my collarbone and wrapping her legs around my waist and digging her nails in my back from sheer pleasure?

I want to do things to her which I cannot mention in polite society. I want to know her in every way I can. I want to grab the headboard and own her. I want to love her sweetly. I want to lay in bed all day and smoke and talk. I want to fall asleep with her on my chest. I want to do it all over again when we wake up.

I want it to last forever.

I take her again. And a third time.

I'm on top of her in the end, my nose painfully close to her ear and my eyes half closed. She turns her head and smiles gently, pressing a finger to my lips. I kiss it.

"_Comment tu t'appelle?" _

Quatre. My name is Quatre.

Her brows furrow together and her lips pout. "_Quatre c'est un nombre. Pourquoi tes parents t'ont donné un nombre pour un nom?"_

If I hadn't expected the question, I would have given her an answer. The four spirits that haunted my father; the four breathes before my mother's death. If I had been a nostalgic man I would expected her to ask me to hear her mother sing, or maybe I'd have put on _Padam_ to spark her memory. Maybe I'd have silenced her with a kiss.

Instead, I just shook my head. She continued.

"_Les patrons sur le bar m'appellent Padam. Mais ça c'est pas mon vrai nom," _she's smiling again, this time taking a deep breath. I want to know her _vrai nom_, to know if she knows about her father twirling her in his arms or my hand pressed against her palm. I want to know if she knows her talent is from her mother. I want to know if she knows her father wanted us to marry.

I want to know if she's really who I think she is. I want to ask her.

Instead I ask if she would like to take a shower while I order us some breakfast. She nods slowly in acceptance, leaning over and placing a kiss on my chin. Her leg wraps around mine playfully, my hands reach down to cup her backside.

I take her a fourth time. Our bodies feel so warm together, so safe, so much like home.

She's in the shower when the food arrives, an assortment of boiled eggs and fresh pastries on a sterling silver tray. There is butter and a little cheese on the side, as well as a pot of Earl Grey tea and some sugar packets. I eat three eggs and a croissant - and am working on my second cup of tea when she comes out from the bathroom. She's barefoot, but wearing the forest green dress she'd had on the night before. Her black peacoat is hanging against a chair, along with a white scarf I hadn't noticed before. She sits down across from me, reaching for a boiled egg and tapping it against the silver tray. She pours herself a cup of tea, and I find myself pleased that she takes it without sugar like I do.

I stand up when I'm done with the cup, deciding its my turn to shower. I walk over to her and place an overprotective kiss on her forehead, taking in the scent of hotel shampoo and woman. I tell her I want her to be sitting here when I'm done, I tell her I want to spend the day with her. She smiles at me. I kiss her again.

The record player is on within a few moments of my shower. At first I thought she'd been doing the singing herself, but the music that followed the voice corrected that thought immediately. It's not her song, I notice, it's not the song that gave her the name _Padam. _Its a different tune, still by Édith Piaf; a woman of the street falling in love with an Englishman, who doesn't seem to notice her and instead falls for a woman of wealth. I can't help but notice the slight resemblance to our situation, only I didn't over look this nameless woman of the street, and this woman of the street - as I suspect - is truly a woman of wealth. Being with someone nameless is not something I'm completely new too. Most of my closest friends are those who have taken names they weren't born with, or names they have given themselves. Duo once said that they weren't important - that names were just things other people gave you. It hasn't, however, escaped my notice that I once again find myself attracted to someone without their own true name. Of course, if I really wanted to, I'm sure I could ask my family members about her family and - if she is who I think she is - it wouldn't be so difficult after knowing her surname to look up her records. Perhaps I can mention it casually over lunch, maybe as we walk the streets of Paris in the most romantic of ways: with my arm wrapped around her because of the cold and her pressing butterfly kisses against my neck.

I think of what to expect of her her when I'm finished, applying her make-up in the mirror by the door and signing the new song along with the record. Or perhaps tapping her foot on the floor and peeling back the shell on another egg, preparing for our walk. Maybe, she's there remembering all the things that had come before: twirling with her father and her mothers voice.

I didn't expect for the table to be empty.

I didn't expect for her to be gone.

I didn't expect the note on the record reading "_désolée"_.

I guess I'm sorry too, _Padam. _I'm so sorry I never asked. I'm so sorry I never told you who you were.

The only one I can tell now is Édith Piaf - who's still singing about the man who will never love her, the man whom she calls _Milord. _


	4. Fascination

This chapter is based off the song "Fascination" by Édith Piaf. Once again, I don't own GW or Édith Piaf's songs. And once again, I encourage you all to read and review - because that would make me very happy and make me want to write more :)

Special thanks to Emily and Alyssa for awesome stuff. I left the only French thing in this chapter a bit of a mystery, just because I think its funny within the context of Trowa not speaking any French, but it means "I'm Quatre Reberba Winner and if I want to smoke, I'll smoke."

Enjoy.

* * *

I will never understand why Quatre enjoys vacationing in France. In the middle of winter of all times.

Of course, I know why he wants to. But knowing and understanding are two very different things.

It was about three years ago when I made the transition of being more to Quatre then just a friend - that is, I became his Preventer appointed bodyguard. Our relationship however, has yet to change in the slightest, aside from the fact that I stand outside his office at Winner Enterprise, follow him to PR meetings on various colonies, stand behind him awkwardly during press conferences -

Make obscenely absurd trips to Paris with him in the dead of winter.

In his defense, he often checks with me whenever her plans on going somewhere. He'll politely say "I have to be at [event] in [place] for [number] days. Are you available to come? I understand if you're busy". I'm sure somewhere in his genius brain he realizes that I'll never be to busy to follow him anywhere, if he asked me to come with him to the ends of the earth I would probably agree to it with a smile. The ends of the earth hopefully not located in France. If they were Quatre would somehow 'forget' to inquire if I would be busy at the given time or if I would even like to attend. Because somehow, when it comes down to France, how I feel becomes an over looked question. And of course, I know why.

I just don't understand.

Although I'm about ninty-seven-point-thirty-three percent sure I choose not to understand.

Its hard to miss though, when he looks into the face of every curly haired brunette on the streets of Paris. Or when he insists on taking shortcuts that prove to be entirely too long through the more seedy areas of the city. Or when he takes twice as long to look through the windows of every bar with a stage -

Or when he's making obscenely absurd trips to Paris in the dead of winter.

He never mentions it, but I know why. I know he wants to find that girl.

And at this point, I use the term 'girl' rather loosely. Its been almost five years to the day; I'll turn twenty-seven this year, Wufei and Sally have two little girls, Duo confessed his love for Heero, a total of four assassination attempts on Relena have failed, and Quatre and I have been friends for eleven years.

Just friends.

But for how well I know him, I don't understand how he's become so obsessed with her - she who evades him so well despite his ruthless five year search, she who makes the most articulate and well mannered man loose his silver tongue, she who has become his longest lasting obsession.

Well, that I know of at least. Maybe it took a little longer to figure me out then I assume. Maybe those days in Corsica still slip in him memory from time to time.

But Corsica is not romance; it is not sidewalks by la Tour Eiffel or kisses along the Seine. Those memories are of two awkward and war-torn teenagers, stuck in a kitchen with a broken coffee maker.

Coffee, is what snaps me out of the daze I've been in all day. A small espresso in a delicate white cup which is settled in front of me by a waiter. Across from that, a slightly larger cup with a personalized kettle of tea. Earl Grey is poured in. The spoon on the table is left alone. No sugar is added. Two pale fingers coil around the handle. They help the cup on a journey up to perfectly parted lips.

Oh, hello Quatre. Have I been mentally-checked-out all day?

"Mmhmmm," I hadn't noticed myself speaking. Or maybe he just knew what I was thinking. He can do that, I'm sure. "Alright?"

I nod.

"Something on your mind?"

My eyes lower to the espresso in front of me.

"I just figured you'd like an espresso. Would you prefer something else?"

I shake my head and take a swift drink to prove my point.

"Something on your mind?"

Corsica.

He nods, "What about it?"

We should go back.

"When?"

Soon.

He blows on his tea gently, the steam flies away from him. He sips, "After Paris. We'll stay at the old compound. Unless of course you mind?"

Of course I don't mind.

He smiles and lets tea cup meet saucer gently. He reaches into his coat pocket, pulls out a pack of cigarettes which he sets on the table between the tea kettle and his black gloves. He puts a white stick in his mouth, lights a match.

The smoke comes from his nose, mixing in the air with the steam from his tea. It laps around his long piano fingers, his wrist. The next huff comes from his mouth, rising up between his eyes and twisting into his hair. A sip of tea, another puff. Tea. Puff. Tea. Puff.

I've been staring. I let my eyes fall to my espresso, reminding myself to not look back up at the smoke twirling in Quatre's hair or playing around his piano fingers. He takes off his black coat and hangs it on the chair-back. It's on top of his powder blue scarf. He bought me a matching one for Christmas.

I choke down the rest of my espresso. Quatre flicks his wrist and another one is brought in its place. They know who he is here, that's why he's the only one smoking in the building. I'm sure by now, anyways, Quatre's drank enough of their tea to own the place.

The couple seated behind him stand up to leave, waving hands in front of their faces to clear the smoke from their nostrils. They shoot us a typically French glare and the man sneers something in our direction, which I cannot understand. One side of Quatre's mouth shoots up in a grin and he turns his head.

"_Je m'appelle Quatre Reberba Winner; et si je vuex fumer, je fume."_

Quatre turns back to his tea; the frenchman silently arches his eyebrows and stomps to the door, pushing it open with such force that it knocks over a little blond child. The couple walks away, and the little boy whimpers. He's only about four or five, it seems. Rather on the slender side, he's got a hole in his grey pants and his black pea coat seems too large for him. The yellow scarf around his neck is so long it must have been dragging behind him, and his hands are covered with green mittens - which he is now rubbing on his rosy face, his runny eyes.

His mother comes up to him now, she bends down and wraps her arms around him. He holds on and she picks him up - scooting towards the window of the café and out of the way of passers-by. She coos him, running her hand along the fine blond hair that covers his head. A gentle smile is playing on her lips when she looks up.

Our eyes meet.

She knows who I am.

I know her, too.

I look down as nonchalantly as possible, not wanting to draw attention from Quatre. I stare at the espresso, watch the little bits of froth on the side bubble. I take a sugar cube, I hold it in the coffee and let it absorb the liquid. I pop it in my mouth slowly. When I look back up, I will take a moment to look at Quatre. I will watch his piano hands holding his tea cup, and his perfect lips touch the bud of his cigarette. I will see the way his hair sticks out just slightly in the back, and the way his blue eyes have the habit of focusing on the smoke thats been curling itself around us this whole time.

There is a one hundred percent chance, however, I will not be able to focus on Quatre.

She's staring at me when I look up. Her brown eyes slightly widened, pouted lips slightly parted. There are stray pieces of hair at the side of her face, which were too short to have pinned up with the rest of the thick curls. Her makeup is simple, she is wearing the same black pea coat she wore before, with the hem of a dark purple dress just barely peeking out from underneath. Her hands are covered by black gloves, and the little boy has buried his face in her white scarf. She may have gained some weight since then, but if she had it's only made her look more healthy - more beautiful.

Most women can't carry motherhood with such grace.

But most women, I notice as the little blond cherub turns his head to face me, don't give birth to the Winner heir.

He's got his mothers pouted lips, and large doe-like brown eyes. But the platinum blond hair and the rosy cheeks, the pale skin and the strong jaw, the Arabic nose and the thin figure...

Well, if he isn't the spitting image of Quatre.

He reaches out with a finger to touch the window glass, under the fading letters that spell out the name of the café. He draws two vertical lines for eyes, and a curve for a smile. He's not aware that the man three tables away, with his back turned to the door, is his father.

I'm sure Quatre isn't aware either. If he were he would have made sure the little boy never had a knee torn on his pants, or a coat that was too big for him. He would probably already speak Arabic fluently along with French, and started his lessons in English. He would be learning piano, soon the violin. He would not be raised as a spoiled child, he would get the things he needed - albeit very nice versions of those things; but toys would only be given for very good behavior. Quatre has often told me, if he ever had a son he would want him to grow up to be a gentleman. A lady, if he had a daughter. Always generous. If Quatre had known about this boy before now, he would be a good father.

If he had known, he would have done the right thing. He would have married her.

I can't help but wonder, as she shakes her head at me slowly and walks away - child in her arms, if she would have been okay with it. If she would have ever let him do the right thing.

I am tempted to grab Quatre, to shake him violently and chastise him for leaving his son without a father. I want to tell him to go after her for his own good. I want to yell at him for getting her pregnant. I want him to know how stupid he's been. I want to tell him to get over it, to forget her and move on. I want to let him know that there's so many more things to obsess over, things which maybe he hasn't exhausted like he thinks he's done.

I know I won't. I let her leave, I'll let him keep thinking like he does. I'll let him keep his fascination.


	5. Le Vieux Piano

So, this is my newest chapter - one I have been turning around in my head for a while now. It was hard to get it on paper, but here it is. It's based off the Édith Piaf song 'La Foule', which means the crowd. I was debating between thing song and another one, but this has got an awesome piano solo at the start. I don't know if I conveyed what I wanted in this chapter, so please everyone validate me! I do want to say, I'm not Muslim and don't know much about the religion (being a non practicing Greek Orthodox myself), so if I made any mistakes in my vague references, please tell me so I can fix them.

I don't own GW or Édith Piaf, but the story is mine.

Shahada, Salat, Zakat, Sawm, and Hajj. These are the Five Pillars of Islam.

I however, am not very good at any of them. But, then again, neither was my father.

His family came from the deserts of Saudi Arabia, in that space of land which seems to capture the imagination of Western Audiences. I don't really understand it, but places loose their magic when you spend too much time there. It's far from perfect, as any country is, but it does remind me of my grandparents - in the least. Warm plates of couscous and lamb, rich tomatoes, chocolate covered dates. Having those genes would make me what the French classify as _un saoudien. _That being said, I'd also be considered _un morocain._

The woman who was my mother, well her family migrated to the colonies when she was a teenager. She was from Morocco, from the Berber tribe - to be specific - a group of second-class Muslims famous for their European looks.

Which means the Roman Empire shuffled a bunch of Nordics into Morocco as slaves. The conclusion was blond North Africans.

I don't speak Berber, but neither did my mother, her parents having attempted to mainstream her into Moroccan society as a little girl. By the time she had met my father, she had been mainstreamed - not as a Moroccan girl, but as a high-tech child of the colonies. I've been told she was very beautiful.

So given my parents, I'm _un saoudien_ and _un morocain. _But since Morocco is technically in North Africa, that would also make me _un africain _and of course lets not forget the ever popular "Middle Eastern" - which unlike American English, is not a French classification.

No matter what though, to some xenophobic French, when it comes down to it - I'll always be _un arab._ It's hard to tell at first glance with me, because of my coloring and my near native French, but sometimes when people find out it's hard to get that look out of their eye. That look of fear and disgust. That anti-Middle Eastern-African racist look. That look that clearly states they assume I'm some fundamental weirdo bent on unhinging every aspect of French Culture and Society.

As I said before, I'm a bad Muslim. And fundamentalist in general annoy me. I think the world would be a lot happier if people would just relax a bit more.

If Catholics can have sex, can't I be a Muslim who drinks alcohol? If Christians can judge, why can't I celebrate Christmas with my friends?

Allah, God, Yahweh. It's all the same, isn't it?

But sometimes, I stand under the shower for as long as I can take it, begging Allah to forgive my sins. The ritual of washing in preparation of prayer, just like my Grandfather use to.

Shahada: Profession of faith. "There is no God but Allah, and Mohammad is the Prophet of Allah".

I can do this.

Salat: Requirement of prayer five times a day - dawn, noon, mid-afternoon, sunset, and night. Must be done in a clean space, must wear modest close, must cleanse self before speaking with Allah.

I never do this.

Zakat: The practice of charity to the less fortunate.

I often do this.

Sawm: Fasting during the time of Ramadan from sunup to sunset in order to bring self closed to Allah.

I hate doing this.

Hajj: Pilgrimage to Mecca.

Have I done this?

I can't remember.

But does it matter, really? I haven't been a good person in the past, but I want to work on that - I have been working on that. Because now all of it; the Five Pillars and the couscous, the old records and wrinkled bed sheets, the deserts of my father and the shadow of a hand pressed against my palm...

Well, I guess it's all in my son, isn't it?

I had only been out for an hour when I ran into her, or maybe she ran into me - opening the glass café door only a moment before I walked in front of it. Maybe the fates alined. But she gasped and took my hand before I could say a word, and a little boy ran out to her legs.

I have heard that father's often meet their children and doubt their paternity. But how could I have ever done that; when he looks like the pictures on my father's desk, or when our eyes met and he smiled up at me?

She motioned me into the door, shooing the boy first and directing him to the old piano at the end of the café. He ran to it immediately, pulling off his green gloves and his coat, dropping his brown messenger bag and opening the keys cover to press his little fingers down, to make a song.

Could I do that when I was little, too?

I look back to the door, where she's turning a sign that read _fermé_ towards the outside. I glance at my watch, noting that they must have been leaving for lunch; noting how empty the café is. She comes toward me, removing her own gloves from her hands and unwinding her long white scarf. Pressing her hands against my shoulder, she leans in to kiss me and her arm winds around my neck. Mine around her waist to hold her their, but she pulls back after only a moment, sighing sadly and curing her finger in my hair.

"_Il s'appelle Florien,_" she whispers. I turn to look at him, still dancing his fingers along the keys lightly.

Florien. A version of the name Florent, the male counterpart to Florence, meaning "flower".

I walk over to him slowly. I watch the way the light bounces off his blond head, the way his elbows move as he plays, the way his little feet kick against the stool.

"_Il a quatr'ans," _she tells me as I near him. That's four years. Four years since I've made love to her, four years they've been alone, four years my son's been without a father.

He looks up at me as I sit beside him at the piano stool, and his mouth breaks into a smile.

"_Qui êtes-vous, Monsieur?" _He said in his gentle French voice, I look back at his mother. She's watching us, and nods at me. She moves towards the back storage-room, opening the door and leaving us.

I tell him I'm his father.

"_Papa?" _his blond brows furrow together, his lips pout slightly. He looks up at me again, his hands have stopped what they're doing. "_Tu m'as manqué, Papa_."

I inhale quickly, it hurts as if I haven't had air in a long time. My eyes feel as if they're watering, I put my hand on his head, his big brown eyes are piercing into mine. I have missed this, I have missed this thing I did not know I had. This little boy.

"_Pourquoi tu plueres papa?" _he asks me, his little eyes filling with concern, "_est-ce que je faisait quelquechose mal?"_

I wrap my arms around him, picking him up as I stand. I tell him I've missed him. That he hasn't done anything wrong, that I've done something wrong. I tell him that's why I'm crying. I tell him I'm sorry for not being here, I tell him that's going to change.

When I look at his face again, he's smiling, wiping the tears from under my eyes and telling me it's okay. He says he's missed me a lot, he's thought of me everyday. He says he's excited I'm back, but he needs to eat something now.

Half amazed that I found such comfort in such a small child and half confused as to how quickly it's all over, I set him down. He runs over to a nearby table where his mother has set a sandwich in front of him; having emerged from the back room only moments before. I find myself settling at a different table, closer to the door, and lighting a cigarette.

"_Tu fumes encore?" _I look up, she's watching me. I nod, yes I do still smoke. She says it's bad for my health. I nod again. She looks pale, and is twisting her hands together.

He's very good with instruments, she tells me. But she isn't, so that must have come from me - she's heard I'm very musically inclined. She says he's a hearty eater, especially pastas and stews, but doesn't like sweets too much. He likes winter over summer, and has an attachment to a stuffed blue rabbit. He loves tea.

His eyes, she says, crinkle the same way mine do in their corners when he smiles.

I ask her how old she is.

She pauses, "_Vignt-trois". _She fiddles with her hands again. I nod.

I ask her why she didn't tell me about him.

She doesn't respond immediately, instead glancing back at Florien. His feet kick against his chair, his eyes dart around the room. She looks back at me, she says she was afraid.

I tell her I don't understand.

She didn't really know _who_ I was until after, she explains. She was already three months pregnant when she saw me on the news giving a speech about resource satellites. She didn't want me to make her get ride of it, not when he already had a heartbeat and she'd made the choice to carry him.

I ask her what made her decide to keep him.

She shakes her head. She'd had an abortion when she was younger. Life on the street is rough, sometimes she had to do things she didn't want to in order to keep going. She didn't want to go through that again.

But, she says, it was because the baby was mine, too.

The chair in the corner squeaks against the floor. Florien gets up, walks over to the piano to keep on playing. Fingers clanking against the keys, feet kicking against the stool.

I put my cigarette out and stand up, my hands shaking. I would have taken care of everything, I would have made sure she was provided for. I would have done the right thing, I would have married her and made sure Florien had a father.

She shakes her head again, faster. There are tears in here eyes now, and her voice quivers. She says she didn't want that. She didn't want me thinking she'd done it on purpose. That she'd trapped me.

Stepping forward, I wrap my arms around her and let her cry on me. My hand curls in her hair and I shush her. I tell her its alright, that I'll take care of them now. That she and Florien can come back to the colonies with me, that we'll get married and everything will be right. I tell her she doesn't have to do it alone anymore, I tell her it's okay.

She keeps crying, I hold her tighter. She says she gave him my last name because she doesn't have one - because she doesn't know hers. I say it's alright, I say it a thousand times. She just cries. I tell her I love her, I've always loved her. But she just cries.

Florien calls "Papa", but says it three times before I realize he's calling me. It's just going to be another new thing I have to get use to, a little voice calling me a name that doesn't feel like I should have. He says he wants to play piano with me. I look up at her for a moment, she smiles slightly. I squeeze her once in my arms and walk over to the piano. I sit with him. He shows me the chords he knows, I straighten his arms to the correct form. He tries again.

I almost didn't hear the bell on the door ring, I almost missed the hem of her skirt flap away as she turned the corner, I almost missed the sobbing she let out as she left. I saw the note though, sitting on a folder full of papers; doctors records, grades, a birth certificate. And the little note on top, the one which read "_j'ai pas de choix". _

I should be angry, shouldn't I? Now that she's left me twice with nothing but a note to go by. But I'm not. I know what it's like when you have no choice, _pas de choix_, when you just have to do what you have to do. No matter what.

For a minute I thought we were going to be a family. The kind I never had. With a mother and a father, and a baby too. The roles are a bit different then I imagined them to be as a kid, but I liked this new version. Somehow I can't help but be happy while I'm sad. It's so bittersweet, this moment: looking at my son while still feeling those kisses on my lips.

If I was a religious man, I would pray to have both. But I'm such a bad muslim, it would probably never work.


	6. Heaven Have a Mercy

So this is the new chapter (obviously). I don't know what the response was to this, but I'm trying to cover every basis of Quatre's complicated character, so I hope you like it. The inspiration for this song was a Beriut song, but I based it (after getting inspiration) on the song "Heaven Have a Mercy" by Édith Piaf. So Enjoy.

After some feedback from my un-official editor and all around bad-ass friend D., I decided to make some edits. For the record, I usually don't do this, if I notice a problem I usually don't care - partially because this is mainly an exercise for me and partially because I'm a cocky person when it comes to my writing. But D. brought up some pretty legit points, so I had to make some changes. They make the story better in my opinion.

* * *

Between the ages of seventeen and twenty, Quatre and I had almost no contact. After only a year of helping the preventers, he left. Naturally, no one looked for him.

It just so happens that rich people get bored easily, especially when they have a superior intellect. The haughty society Quatre had been reentered in post-war had different ideas of fun. So began his two year stint as a cocaine addict.

He had done drugs before of course, growing up with twenty-nine sisters, Daddy-Issues, and enough money to make Solomon blush grants one the ability to dabble and experiment in all walks of life. This experimentation ended when it was replaced with a new obsession, of course. His interest in mobile suits, becoming a prized fighter and a tactical genius, they were enough to drive him away from that lifestyle.

From the years AC 197 to AC 199, Winner Enterprise paid Quatre a monthly sum to essentially stay out of trouble. Keeping himself out of the papers proved to be easy enough, given his relatively unknown status at the time and the ability to go unnoticed when it suited him. He'd lived in a lavish apartment in some undisclosed location, doing whatever bored rich people do - partying and sleeping, I assume.

Six months after reconnecting with Quatre, Duo leaned over my shoulder to tell me how our friend had been involved in multiple affairs which centered mainly around sex and drug use.

I asked him why I should care.

He said since I was falling for Quatre all over again, it would be wise to know the dirty little secrets of the past. I inquired if my feelings were obvious, but Duo only grinned - telling me he'd figured out my secret the way he'd figured out Quatre's.

Since I can't remember telling him, it was probably through means of alcohol.

Yet somehow, as his twentieth birthday drew closer - the year in which Quatre was to take over Winner Enterprise as directed both by tradition and his father's will - Quatre checked himself into rehab.

He was out in five months time.

And he had never relapsed.

Because, simply put, he had replaced his obsession.

The genius mind's ability to obsess makes it's accomplishments more grand than the average person. That is Quatre was obsessed with getting better, so he did.

Addicts, by definition, cannot make this kind of snap decisions. And if they do, they rarely stick with them. Yet, as of late December AC 207 Quatre is still clean.

He'd emerged, a little worse for wear, as the new CEO of Winner Enterprise in January of AC 200. He had gotten in contact with us again, enlisting the preventers as his security agents. He'd sat us down over tea and briefly explained where he'd been for the last two years.

"But I'm better now" he'd assured us, "it was a mistake that will never be repeated." He said it so politely, as if he were merely telling us that dinner would be a few minutes late because of the potatoes.

Heero nodded in acceptance, taking -as always- whatever Quatre said to be an absolute fact. Having always held respect for Quatre as a leader, he naturally assumed that what ever Quatre said was and always would be the best movement from a tactical standpoint. Therefore, if Quatre said he was ready to move onto phase two of operation Winner Enterprise, then phase two was to commence.

Wufei, being more skeptical, suggested that Quatre join a support group similar to his own AA. He also assured Quatre that he was always available for personal support, having gone through his own version of hell. He mentioned exercise had worked for him, and was always a good replacement for addiction.

Duo made a big deal. He blamed himself and said he should have been more worried when Quatre had gone missing. He should never have, he yelled, listened to Heero and allowed Quatre his space.

"No Duo" Quatre responded calmly, "it's no ones fault but my own. But now I have something to drive me. I can guarantee you I'll never relapse" and then began talking about the latest plans for Winner Enterprise with the same bluntness he had for rebuilding a coffee pot.

He later told me he'd thought we'd lost respect for him in those moments. That he saw it drain from our eyes and puddle at our feet. The imagery was lost on me, but his message was clear. He was insecure in our regard for him, he thought we were second guessing his abilities. For once though, he'd misread me. I wasn't thinking about how disappointed I was, I wasn't thinking about how I'd have to second guess him, I wasn't thinking of his possible relapse. I was thinking about what he would do to keep his secret safe.

Quatre has gone to great lengths to keep his secrets secrets. He's gone to very great lengths.

I got a phone call while I was sleeping one night, in the moments before two a.m.. He told me to get in my truck and meet him at the intersection of Red Avenue and Almond street, behind the liquor store. He said to hurry, and to bring a shovel. The call ended.

I dressed quietly, listening to my breathing and the sound of my heart. The thump-thump, the Padam-Padam. The few things in this world which make me stop to listen, the few things which make me dress quietly; the sticky heat of earth's atmosphere, the clock's tick-tock, the dead calm in Quatre's voice.

One of his sleek black cars was already there, waiting with him outside smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a suit with no tie. His black shoes looked as if they'd just been polished.

A Maguanac soldier got out of the driver seat, nodded to me when I got out and rounded the car to open the trunk. He motioned me over and told me to open the bed on my pickup. I helped him lift it out, a body wrapped in a Persian rug. I noticed the pattern, it was from Quatre's home office. We slipped it in, shut the door to the truck-bed, the Maguanac dusted off his hands and handed the car keys to Quatre.

He said something in Arabic, Quatre responded. The Maguanac started walking back to the house. Quatre then turned to me with a smile and, putting out his cigarette on the concrete, said "I need you to drive me somewhere Trowa".

I nodded. He smiled again.

"Get in the car please". I did as I was told, climbing into the drivers seat while Quatre got into the passengers. He glanced back at the bed, the rolled up Persian rug. There was a spot of red on his white collar, a freckle of crimson. He told me to get on the freeway. He told me to drive as fast as I felt comfortable, we covered more road then we should have in an hour. The drive was quiet; neither of us spoke, the radio wasn't on. Coughs and breathing sounded loud, swallowing seemed painful.

One hour and seven minutes were spent on the road.

Those minutes were so long.

Those minutes would not tick by; the still man in my trunk, the crimson stain on Quatre's pressed white collar, the breathing. Stifled, heavy breathing.

"Turn off here" he said eventually, pointing to a little dirt road off the freeway I hadn't seen. We drove. We left the little dirt road behind. The man in the Persian Rug rattled around.

Twenty-eight more minutes.

"Sunrise is around seven" he said to me as he got out of the car, leaving his suit jacket behind, "which doesn't leave me much time."

I nodded as he pulled a pick-axe out of the truck-bed. I went for the shovel, he shook his head.

"I started this, I have to finish it." I nodded.

He walked to one side of my truck and threw the pick-axe into the ground. He picked it up and did it again. I leaned on the other side, facing away from him and staring into the trees. I could hear his grunts as he lifted the pick-axe, the sharp cutting sound of it digging into the ground, the scraping as he lifted again. The grunting, the cutting, the scraping. Grunting, cutting, scraping. Grunting, cutting, scraping. One, two, three. One, two, three.

I glanced back only twice; the first time watching his silhouette as he lifted the pick-axe and smashed it into the earth - sleeves rolled up, body stretched out. Had there been moonlight it would have danced off his hair. Had there been moonlight, I could watch his technique. Had there been moonlight, it might have been from a Romanticist poem or a Grimm faerie tale. But there was no moonlight, and there was nothing to obscure it to a story. I watched his silhouette, but only for as long as I could take it.

Fifteen minutes.

I turned my head slightly when I heard him slide the pick-axe into the truck-bed, exchanging it for the shovel. I didn't look back until he was done. I listened to the rhythm; the shovel slicing into dirt, the dirt tumbling onto the ground. Slice and tumble, slice and tumble, slice and tumble. One two, one two, one two.

I heard him yank on the rug, the body, to shimmy it out of my truck. Dragging it to the hole. The shovel slicing into the dirt pile, the dirt tumbling back into the grave. Another rhythm of slice and tumble, slice and tumble, slice and tumble.

Fourty-six.

The whole process didn't take as long as it should have, and I almost didn't notice when he was finished. I found him leaning on the shovel, smoking a cigarette next to the freshly disturbed earth. Dawn was still a few hours away. He put the shovel in the car and motioned me to the drivers seat. We got in. He told me to drive to my house.

"Who was that?" Quatre's head snapped toward me, eyes looking slightly as if they'd seen a ghost. I hadn't spoken until then, there had been nothing. My voice sounded foreign and loud.

"Someone who found out my secret."

We stared at each other for a minute. I spoke again.

"Which one?"

We stared. Quatre turned back to the front and told me to drive. I started the car. We drove back faster than before. Thirty-nine minutes.

I had barely stopped the car when he got out, walking into my house and to my bedroom. He locked the door and emerged a few moments later wearing some of my clothes; a green t-shirt and some light jeans which he had to cuff because of their length. He'd washed his hands, his face, rinsed his hair. His suit was under his arm, he held a gun which must have been in his pocket, he was wiping it clean.

Five.

"I need you to drive me back to my car."

So I did. And then I watched. I watched him take the mats from his car. I watched him put them in my truck. I watched him take the license plated, scratch out serial numbers. I watched him empty the glove box into a briefcase which had been in the back. I watched him put in some papers, his gun, a wallet that wasn't his. I watched him put that in my car, too.

"I need you to drive my car somewhere for me."

I watched him get into the passenger's seat.

I drove to lake a few miles away. Quatre got out, I did the same. He put the car in neutral, rounded to the back and pushed. It wasn't hard for him, he pushed it steadily. He pushed it consistently. He shoved it at the end. And then he watched it, he watched the car sink. I watched him watch the car.

Twenty minutes.

We walked after that, for a few miles, until Quatre asked to borrow my phone so he could call on of the Maguanacs to come get us. I told him I could walk to my car, he said nonsense and that he was planning on taking me out for breakfast. He smiled at me like he had at the beginning of the night and joked about how he should probably learn how to drive. The Maguanac man showed up a few minutes later, we went for breakfast. Quatre ate boiled eggs and a grapefruit, I had coffee.

Within three weeks two people connected to Quatre showed up missing in the paper; a bank associate who was withdrawing assets from Winner Enterprise and a journalist who'd recently done an exposé on one of his sisters. It might not have been either of them, though. Quatre never mentioned if he'd been questioned or not, but if he did nothing happened.

Because what Quatre Winner does has a habit of staying secret. But I have a hard time believing that will be the case with the boy.

Although, I don't think Quatre would want to. The issue will cause a stir though: women all over the would will be claiming Quatre is the father of their children. Their children, however, won't be like Florien - who is more like Quatre then even I'd like to admit. It's rather eerie.

I don't know what's harder to believe, the fact that the only thing the boy is bringing with him from his old life is a brown stuffed rabbit, or that he's never been out of Paris. Anyone else would find the hardest thing to be Quatre's paternity, but since I had this information prior to him my surprise has been stifled marginally. It was still unexpected when he showed up to my hotel room with a little toe-headed child hiding behind his legs. I didn't expect Quatre to cross paths with her again, let alone take the child. She left Florien with him though, I can tell.

Florien does seem to consider his time with Quatre as an exciting adventure, I can see the question "_où est maman_?" building up behind his big brown eyes.

Him being Quatre's son means two things. One: he's smart enough to know not to ask questions and two: he's also stubborn enough to hold onto said questions until the opportune moment. If Florien has inherited anything, it is Quatre's ability to plan. He's planning right now, he has been planning.

Still a child though, he does act like one. He is well behaved and polite - which also speaks of Quatre - but does tend to get a little bored if in the same position for too long - which may or may not be a trait of Quatre's depending on the situation. He spends most of his time playing with his stuffed rabbit or coloring with the crayons his father bought him before we got onto the train. After the train started, he would watch the scenery go by and make small comments in French while pointing to buildings. He seems to be able to stare long and hard at practically nothing. It seem that for someone who'd never meet his father before, it's phenomenal that they are so similar.

Sometimes he would begin airily "_Papa, où est maman_?" even though he knows the question is unanswerable. Quatre would keep quiet and after a moment Florien would give up, and most likely mentally catalogue the event as the twenty-third unanswered question of the day. Sometimes Quatre would counter the question by giving Florien his wallet, letting the boy look through it and play with his business cards and drivers license. He'd pour out the change and roll it on the table.

"Trowa," I heard a foreign little whisper come from Florien's mouth, "_pourquoi vous êtes toujours silent_?"

"In English," came Quatre's authoritative voice. Florien nodded and continued, this time louder.

"Why are you silent?"

"Quiet," Quatre corrected, running his hand through the little blonds hair.

"Silent _c'est pas correct_?"

"No it's right, but we say queit."

He nodded, and tried again. "Why are you quiet?"

Well Florien, probably because I don't have much to say.

He nodded. "You're Papa's friend?"

I hope so.

"Do you know my _lapin_," and he placed his brown rabbit on the table.

Lapin? Do you mean rabbit?

"Yes. Rabbit"

And from there, I had my first conversation with Florien. And I came to see he was more like Quatre then his habits lead me to believe. He enjoyed the same music, the same tea and sweets, and even had the same way of seemingly reading my mind.

I can barely deal with one Quatre.

Mainly because I'm infatuated.

But the similarities, I feel, will drive me insane.

Florien eventually fell asleep with Quatre holding him, patting his hair as he watched the scenery unfold before him. I watched the way his hands fiddled with his son's flaxen locks. I studied them. I noticed them.

Quatre's hands, patting Florien's hair in a musical beat - his piano hands which test the heat of tea and get wound in cigarette smoke. I don't understand those hands. The hands which shuffle bank statements and write Corporate charts, the hands which cleaned a Gundam and press bullets into a gun. His hands which have cut lines of cocaine and bury strange men in shallow graves. I don't get these hands. I don't understand them in his son's hair.

But I know them.

Knowing and understanding, of course, are two different things.

If I can't even comprehend his psyche, how will I ever understand those hands?


	7. Mon Dieu

I really hope everyone enjoys this chapter. It's somewhat intense, but I really loved writing it. I feel like I need to write something funny because this story is so sad all the time. Anyways, this is based (sorta) on the song "Mon Dieu" by Édith Piaf, although it was mainly written in silence. I don't own Édith Piaf or Gundam Wing, but this story is mine and I would totally appreciate it if you left me some super awesome reviews.

Anywho, special thanks to Emily and Alyssa for being generally awesome folks in every way possible. Enjoy!

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Trowa once found me in the middle of a river, up to my waist in water. I don't know if he told me, but I remember knowing he'd equated the moment to a baptism of sorts and wondered if Islam followed the same tradition. His knowledge of my religion is small, but than again, so is mine.

I felt his eyes on me as I held my palms close to the water, testing them against the imaginary energy that separated me from the cool liquid. I remember him looking at me when I dipped my fingers in and brought up handfuls of clear water, throwing it over my bare torso and over my arms. I ran it through my blond hair, washing out the dirt and someone-else's dried blood.

I knew he watched me when I let myself fall back. I went under for a moment than, opening my eyes and looking at the way the sun was morphed by the blue surrounding me. I wondered for a moment, in an almost childlike hope, that my matching eyes could leave my head. That somehow they could join this bigger creation, that somehow they wouldn't have to stay with me.

I emerged quickly, breathing deeply and throwing my hair from my face. The water dripped down my forehead, I closed my eyes. My fingertips still touching the water, trying to hold onto the moment. Trying to hold onto the water itself. I breathed deeply, my skin chilled by the air, droplets running down my face like tears.

I knew Trowa wasn't watching anymore, I knew he'd left.

That's okay though, cause sometimes I look back on that moment thinking it would have been nice if I'd left too.

Meaning, of course, I wish I had died.

I've never been suicidal, but whenever I think back on that moment, I can't help but want to die like that. Looking up into the water-blurred sun and sinking to the bottom of a cool river. Being surrounded by water; so comforting, so much like being in the womb.

The ways I have almost died are much less enjoyable, much less peaceful. I assume it runs in the family, like nose shape or freckles. My father was blown up, to put it eloquently, and my mother.....

I can only assume, death by your own son is not only physically and emotionally painful but also horribly symbolic. Generation replacing generation. Death giving birth. Etc., etc., etc.

It was never my intention to have children....

I only learned about my mother when I was fifteen, the last time I spoke with my father before he died. Before his death on the satellite, before I pleaded for him to escape.

It was the last time I was ever in my fathers house. I don't go back there now, and its usually habited by various Maguanacs or some of my sisters. It's been eleven years, but I can remember it clearly. Sometimes it feels like a commercial repeating in my mind, or a play in which the main characters try to change the ending. I could recite the conversation word for word, I could relive it every morning before I open my eyes.

My fingers are tapping on the keys of the piano in my living room in order to create a steady beat. One two three, one two three.

It's no secret that the Winner family used artificial means of procreation. It's no secret that Zayeed Winner chose to make, all at once, twenty-nine children in hopes of getting an heir for his vast fortune. It's no secret he did this because he wanted a son. It's no secret that he hired numerous scientists in order to create a process of in-utero type of incubation that wouldn't require any actual implantation inside of a woman. It's no secret he simply needed twenty-nine eggs added to his sperm and a nine month waiting period. It's no secret he planned on making clones of the zygot that would turn into a male heir - or he would have if any of them had been male, that is.

I don't know who my sisters are, but I know their names: Iria, Adiba, Farah, Lu'lu, Cala, Hessa...

My grandfather apparently told him, when all twenty nine children turned out to be girls, that fate was punishing him with this cruel irony for playing God. Perhaps, my grandfather had suggested, that my father try for a child the _traditional_ way, the _normal _way.

Johara, Layla, Aludra, Safiyyah, Mona, Iman...

I haven't met all of my sisters, or if I do I don't remember them. Most of them work for my business on different colonies or on Earth, but my interactions with them are rarely related to matters of business. I get a call or a card if someone's had a baby, if a marriage will happen. I come to their homes with gifts if they invite me: trying to keep the orientation of child to mother, husband to wife, boyfriend to girlfriend, who belongs to who so to not insult anyone.

Hadiya, Bahiya, Yasmeen, Inaya, Karida, Lina, Rasha...

I get cards for my birthday, sometimes during one obscure holiday or another - some send for Christmas even though we're Muslim, some for New Years, some during random intervals of Ramadan. I have a hard time sending them back because I have nothing to say to them, I can't sign a card that says "I can't wait to see you" or "lots of love" when I don't even know where they graduated from college. If I have the time I send something generic - "Thanks for the card wish you well". If I don't have time, someone else does it for me.

Amani, Maysa, Faridah, Suha, Thana, Nida, Lamya, Malika, and Shada.

But these things shouldn't be a surprise. How can the thirty of us be expected to have relationships when we can barely keep names straight. I wouldn't be surprised if my sisters didn't even speak to each other. After all, I'm really the only important one. That's why I get birthday cards, that's why they invite me to weddings and tell me about births.

Six years after my father created twenty-nine children, he met my mother. Four years after that, she died.

One two three one two three one two three. The keys on the piano are just as white as they've always been, the music is just as bittersweet.

He wasn't doing anything when I walked in, but I could tell he'd been looking at the pictures on his desk: one of me as a child and other the large group of my sisters when they were about fifteen. We'd always lived in different homes, I don't know how the picture was even taken.

"Father."

He looked up at me, his eyes were brown. They were nothing like mine.

"Quatre."

I swallowed, pushing my shoulders back slightly in order to stand as straight as I possibly could.

"I just came to talk. I wanted to try and explain things. I know we won't see eye-to-eye, but I want you to understand where I'm coming from."

He stood up, rounding his desk and leaning on it once he'd faced me.

"Explain then."

I looked down, then up, at the wall, the ceiling, his shoes, the window. "It's not realistic to assume that doing nothing will result in something. It's the most basic of all scientific arguments, something cannot come from nothing."

"And every action must have a reaction."

"An equal but opposite reaction," I coughed and clasped my hands behind my back, "reason would concur that the actions of a great war would have the reaction of a great peace."

"Are you trying to say it's realistic to assume war will lead to peace?"

"I'm saying it's not realistic to have one without the other."

"And you condone war?"

"No, but to assume that something must be condoned in order to be practiced is problematic."

"As Winners we must set an example for the rest. By going through the motions of war you are suggesting that everyone do the same."

"You're assuming the general populous is stupid."

"Considering how easily the Alliance and Oz have gained almost complete control, can you argue against it?"

I huffed, "Assuming the general populous is stupid, it could be maintained that they either need the protection of others such as myself going out to fight or won't be motivated to follow any examples that may or may not be set by my actions."

"Your actions are condoning war."

"I am not condoning war. I am fighting for people who can't do it for themselves."

My father stopped and smiled, a little grin that flashed across his face while his head was bent down. "Your actions are setting an extreme which some might consider to be followed in every circumstance. You know better. You know if the action isn't the correct action to take in every circumstance, than it is not moral."

My hands fell to my side in response to statement, his attempt to pass a philosophers opinions as his own didn't go unnoticed. "Emmanuel Kant," I began, "is a moron. He's an idealistic fool."

"I happen to firmly believe in what he says here. Does that make me an idealistic fool?"

"Father, consider the idea of providing the greatest happiness to the greatest amount of people. The suffering of few people is permissible if the greater populous is spared from that suffering. The suffering that happens to myself and others who voluntarily enter war is a legitimate exchange for the happiness of others."

He shook his head. "Quatre you're not taking into consideration the impact a dead soldier has on the rest of the community."

"Are you saying that the pain of losing a loved one to war is more difficult than every single person enduring in that war themselves? Well, some people may think thats true, but it's hardly the way to go about life!"

A snort escaped from my father followed by a chuckle. "Now who's being unrealistic? My suggestion doesn't imply that everyone should go out to war instead. If anything, your statement has brought us right back to what I said before"

"But someone needs to fight for people who aren't able to. You can't just throw away the way things are because they don't fit into your vision of a pacifist society!"

"I am not doing that." He shook his head again, and his tone was patronizing as always, "I understand war will happen, but this is a pacifist family and I will not just sit by idly while my only heir goes out and tarnishes my name in some crazy war! If anything Quatre you're only doing this as some form of rebellion."

"Rebellion is getting a tattoo Father. These are my beliefs."

"Men shouldn't die for beliefs they should die for facts."

I shook my head, narrowing my eyes and stepping forward. "Do you even understand the moral implication of that statement?! Thousands of people would still be living in abject poverty, still be oppressed and be killed for their religions if we only relied on facts!"

"One would only be killing another for their religion or oppressing a man into poverty because of personal beliefs." He shook his head, "If facts were considered, that people work better under the promise of freedom and when they are rewarded with societal achievement ---"

"Are you trying to say that the beliefs should be thrown away entirely?!"

"I'm saying that facts should take precedent, while you seem to think that beliefs are everything."

I shook my head, no no no no no. "Facts must co-inside with beliefs, but the reasons for change come from the pure _fact_ that one persons _belief _started a movement of progress!"

"Change does not always happen from beliefs and progress is not always for the better of the ---"

"Not for people like you! Progress is anything that lines your wallet!"

"You only believe that because you're a child."

"I am no child."

"Well you are no man."

"I have been to war and fought for the freedom of the colonists!"

"Fighting a war does not make you a man."

"Neither does money Father!"

"Quatre." His voice took a stern tone. "This argument is not about me and my business, it is about you and your failure to obey me as my heir."

"Obey? Is that all you ever talk about? How I listen to you and follow orders? What about my beliefs? What about going to fight for them? Doesn't that deserve some respect?"

"Stupidity doesn't earn respect Quatre."

"I am _not _stupid Father."

"You're acting like a fool."

"A fool!? I'm acting like a fool when you're the one who created_ twenty-nine_ children at once just to get a boy! A boy! For what? For some stupid tradition."

He stopped and exhaled, "Quatre. You are my heir you must obey me."

"Being labeled as your heir doesn't make me incapable of independent thought! Who are you to make my choices for me?! Just because you ejaculated into a cup and waited nine months!?"

"Quatre --"

"Just because you paid for private tutors and lessons?! Because you've invested all this money in a little mini-Zayeed who should think and talk in the ignorant patterns he does!?" I stepped forward again, raising my voice louder with every word. Pointing to him and looking in his foreign brown eyes. "You speak of tradition when you cast aside our family's true name for some sloppy English translation just to appease the board of trustees who think Fayez won't look pretty on the side of a building!?!"

"Quatre --"

"You think that just because you gave me in some God-forsaken test tube life you can leave me with maids and butlers and ignore me - just assume I'm going to idealize you for the rest of my life like you're some pathetic demi-god!?! Father, you are the failure, you're the one who looks like a fool! I'm the one who should be ashamed of a close minded man who can't even ---"

"THAT'S ENOUGH."

My mouth closed. My breathing shuddered. My father spoke. His voice was flat, his mouth was straight, his hands clutched the back of his desk. His words came out in a large bark:

"I wish your mother had aborted you like I wanted!"

There was a pause. My heart stopped.

"Wh-what?"

"I wish" He'd yelled, "that your mother had aborted you like I wanted her to do!"

There was another pause. My eyes widened. I shook my head, my hands running up through my hair, my voice shaking.

"No. No no no no no." I closed my eyes.

"You," my father continued, "you are no man. You are no son of mine."

He stepped toward me. My head snapped up to meet his eyes.

The piano feels good against my hands, the music's feels safe as it goes through my body. It's the only thing I've ever known. The only thing that's ever made sense.

"Father."

"Yes?"

"I hate you."

He looked at me.

"Alright," He said as he turned back to his desk.

I opened the door and took off down the hall. Storming down the hallway as quickly as I could, grabbing anything within my reach, throwing them to the ground. A vase going to my hand, hurled to the floor, shattering. An old painting I knocked over with my hand, turning over the table next to it. Kicking the wood so it splinters and flies down the carpet. Smashing the large antique clock against the wall. The clock the table the vase the painting the table the vase the vase the painting the splinters on the floor.

My hands pushed open the doors to the gardens and I reached behind to pull the gun resting at the small of my back. Kicking over the statues, stomping out the flowers, pushing over the small fountains.

I stood there. I unlocked the gun. I looked into the window of my father's office. I screamed.

"I HATE YOU I HATE YOU. I WISH I'D NEVER BEEN BORN. I WISH I WAS DEAD. I HATE YOU I HATE YOU."

I pressed the gun into my temple. I looked at his window, I looked at his silhouette, I watched him watch me. I watched him look at the gun in my hand. I saw him shake his head. I saw him not care.

I could read him from there. As if he were screaming at me that I wasn't strong enough. As if he were telling me I didn't have the courage to pull the trigger.

How many minutes did I stand there with a gun pressed against my forehead?

Maybe one, maybe fifty.

He was right. I didn't have it in me.

I ran away instead. I went to make a Gundam. I left to prove him wrong about my fight.

The next time I saw him, he died.

And then I went insane.

And then I blew up a colony.

And then I tried to kill Heero.

And then I almost killed Trowa.

And then I was a prisoner.

And then.....and then.....

My fingers change randomly in the middle of a song, parting from one tune and starting a new rhythm. I close my eyes. I know the path my hands will take as they move across the keys. I know the piano. I know this is all I know.

And then I almost died in the hospital.

I saw a flash of blue and a blur of yellow florescent light. Someone's green eyes, and the oxygen mask as they put it on my face.

But it hurts to breathe. It still hurts to breathe sometimes.

Red red red blood everywhere, my head rolls from side to side. I cough. The doctors yell for people to move. They say they won't let the Winner heir die on their table. They say the stab barely missed my heart. They say my lungs have too much blood in them. They say they don't know why I kept fighting.

They don't know why.

I don't know why.

I don't know anything but this pain. Anything but this piano.

And I wondered, was she rushed to surgery like this? When her son started killing her, did they take her away from her husband? Did they put an oxygen mask on her face?

They let her die.

I see blue and yellow and red and green. I see green, I see green.

Were her blue eyes rolling back in her head, did it hurt her to breathe? What colors did she see? What kind of colors.....

What song do I keep playing?

I was in a coma for eight days. But I replayed everything in my mind. Like a commercial repeating in my memory that I can recited word for word. Or the colors that swirl behind my eyelids in a bright pattern: blue yellow red red red green.

"Quatre?"

My head turns towards the voice. Trowa is sitting on the couch, a book in his hand, looking at me. Florien is laying next to him asleep, not looking at me. I blink.

"Yes?"

His eyes narrow. "You stopped playing."

I look down at the piano keys. My hands are on my lap.

"Yes. Yes I did."

"Are you okay?"

I look at him again. I look at Florien.

"Perhaps."

He nods. I watch him. I stare.

I see green.

I see green.

I see green.

He turns back to his book, tucking his legs in and reclining slightly. My eyes travel back to the piano. My hands still rest in my lap and I stare at the keys. I close my eyes. I think of my father, I think of my mother. I think of Florien.

My eyes are still shut, but I know Trowa is watching me.

I think of the river. I think of how it matched my eyes. I think of how safe and beautiful it was.

Would I have liked to die there?

Would I have liked it?


	8. L'Effect Que Tu Me Fais

This is a chapter for all you Trowa-lovers out there. Maybe because I feel bad for last chapter being so intense, but this one's a bit "lighter" (also still somewhat sad simply because it wouldn't be one of my stories if it were happy). I really hope you like this one, we're starting to really get into the meat of the plot.

This story is _kinda_ based of the song "L'Effect Que Tu Me Fais" by Édith Piaf, which I do not own. I also don't own Gundam Wing, but I own this story, so no stealing! OH! And the movie they're watching is _The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly_, which I also don't own. But it's awesome, so go watch it!

Special thanks to Emily and Alyssa as always! They are my awesome Creative-Editors.

FYI: reviews make me want to write more :)

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It's my birthday.

No. This is the day the mercenaries decided was my birthday. Because I looked little. I looked under ten, under seven, over four. Maybe six.

I'm twenty-seven.

Or maybe I'm twenty-six, twenty-eight, twenty-five...

Quatre only just turned twenty-six this summer. Maybe I should stay twenty-six, too.

When I was about eight, the mercenaries had stopped for a night on the town. There was a carnival; one of them bought me a piece of cake. I had never had cake before.

He said I'd been so excited. Like it was Christmas and my birthday all rolled into one. Then he paused.

"When is your birthday anyways kid?"

I shrugged.

"Hey" he shouted over his shoulder to the others, "does the kid have a birthday?"

No one answered. He sighed.

"Well Nanashi, how bout today?"

So, today is my birthday.

March 15th.

I say I'm twenty-seven.

I wouldn't have remembered if Quatre hadn't come to my door with a smile on his face. If he hadn't come to say Happy Birthday.

"Should I have called?" he says slowly, handing me the large handle of the twenty-four case of beer he'd been holding. "I should have called. I'll call next time."

He moves past me into the kitchen, placing two plastic bags onto the counter. He unloads them; take-out food and three bottles of wine.

"Mexican's your favorite, right?"

I nod, although I know he didn't see me. My head is halfway out the door, my ears searching for the sound of his driver leaving. There is no sound, there is no driver.

There was a black car in my driveway.

Is that a Bugatti?

"Oh you know the brand?" He called from the kitchen, I could hear the smile in his voice. "I just learned to drive it on Wednesday."

My head moves again.

Yeah I know it.

I turn and shut the door, moving towards the kitchen slowly.

"I got that thing you like," He hands me a large styrofoam box and a fork. "I figured you'd want beer to go with it. Did I get enough?"

I put the beer on the counter. You brought wine too?

"Yeah, that's for me."

All of it?

He shrugs. "Beer's all yours." He picks up his box and a fork in one hand, a bottle and a corkscrew in the other.

"So I was thinking we could watch a movie. I brought one of those old Westerns."

I nod, grabbing a beer and moving to sit on the couch. He put his food on the coffee table and moved to start the movie.

Quatre prefers foreign films; I'm the only one who likes Westerns.

I guess it is my birthday.

The movie starts and I pick at my food. I move around the rice, the enchilada. I drink my beer. I listen to them talk.

"You're from Baker... Tell Baker that I told him all that I know already" went the TV, "Tell him I want to live in peace, understand?"

My attention to the movie doesn't seem to last long. I start playing with my food, creating a spiral of enchilada and rice with my fork. Opening another beer and putting all the bottle caps into a nice little pile. Moving the pillow behind my back, shifting my clothes. Beer, shifting, movie. Beer, shifting, movie. On and on and on.

Because if I'm not doing that, I'm looking at Quatre.

He eats his food very slowly, letting the fork linger between his mouth and food when something on screen interests him, then turns back to eat some more. He had been drinking wine out of an old mug he grabbed from my cupboard, but eventually - as the movie goes on and he finishes his food - starts drinking it straight from the bottle. The red wine has barely stained the inside of his lips and he tucks his legs under him when he starts staring at the TV. He drinks his wine, I drink my beer. I collect the bottle-caps, I shift in my seat.

Somewhere in my buzzed haze I notice I've been staring. I move my eyes from him, I move them to watch the cowboys.

"I'm very happy you are working with me! And we're together again," the TV tells me. "I get dressed, I kill him and be right back"

My eyes travel back to Quatre. His head is leaning against the couch, the light from the movie is reflecting off his eyes in the dark.

"Listen," says the TV, "I forgot to mention, there's five of 'em"

"Five," goes the TV.

"Yeah, five of 'em."

His fingers fiddle with the wine bottle. He puts it against his lips and tips it all the way back. He shakes it, places it on the table, picks up the new one, opens it.

"So, that's why you came to Tuco" the TV continued.

He starts drinking that one, too. Taking a big chug and putting it back on his lap. I feel my eyebrow quirk slightly, he usually doesn't drink this much.

"It doesn't matter, I'll kill them all." the TV told me.

I watch him. I watch the movie. Switching between the two. Quatre, movie. Quatre, movie. On and on and on.

"You like to watch me, don't you Trowa?"

I turn my head. The TV didn't say that.

"What?"

Quatre's eyes are on me. His knees are close to his chest and the wine bottle is in his hand.

"I said: you like to watch me, don't you Trowa?"

I swallow. I take a deep breath. I blink. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs and takes another drink. "I've been drinking, so I'm going to be blunt."

"Okay. Be blunt."

"You stare at me a lot."

I blink. My chest rises slowly. My breath sounds too loud. I take another drink.

"It doesn't bother me," he said after a moment, "I just noticed you like to look at me."

He's not talking, instead he scoots closer. The wine in the bottle swirled.

"But, why _do_ you like to look at me Trowa?"

I look into his eyes and watched the light bounce from them, the images dancing around in deep circles of bright blue. I look at the hair that curls in the back, I look at the arabic nose, I look at the smooth white skin.

Because I love you.

He blinks and smiles. It's a kind, sincere, Quatre smile. It is a sad smile.

"I usually don't mind you being so quiet Trowa." He leaned back into the couch. "You know, call me crazy, but sometimes I feel like I know what you're thinking. And other times..." He took another drink, "other times I wish you would just say what's on your mind."

Don't pretend like you don't know, Quatre.

Don't pretend like you didn't know from that first moment.

When I stepped out of my mobile suit, and you told me to put my hands down. You knew then. I know it.

He gently places the bottle on the coffee table, it's nearly empty. I stand up to collect the beer bottles I've arranged, only to change my mind half way through and decided on another drink. I move around the table to get a beer. Quatre gets up, holding onto the arm of the couch for balance and shifting slightly as he stands.

He sighs. "Trowa."

"Yes."

"I'm drunk."

"You did drink two bottles of wine."

"Yeah."

I get another beer, I open it and walk back over to the couch. Quatre is standing in front of me.

"Trowa."

"Yes?"

"I'm drunk."

"I know."

"You're not, are you?"

"Only a little."

He nods his head, and steps closer to me. We're not very far apart, his eyes stare into my shoulder.

"Trowa."

"Yes?"

"Why can't you just tell me what you're thinking?"

I take another drink of my beer. I swish it around my mouth. I swallow slowly.

I don't know.

He nods and bends to the side quickly to grab the near-empty wine bottle. He finishes it off.

"I'm going to open another one."

I don't think that's a good idea.

"Do what you want," I tell him.

He goes to the kitchen to get his third bottle. It's a white wine this time. He opens it up and grabs a glass on the counter. He pours it in and drinks, a little bit spills on his black sweater.

"Trowa," he says.

"Yes?"

He stops for a minute, staring at the glass in his hand. "What language do you count in?"

My eyebrows knit together. "English."

"Oh." He takes another drink. "I count in arabic. What language is your alphabet in?"

"English."

He looks at the glass, he looks at it sadly. "Mine's in French."

I swallow.

"Where's Florien tonight?" I ask him eventually.

He looks up. "With the Maguanacs."

"It's okay for him not to see you?"

He shrugs. "I use to not see my father for weeks at a time."

I take a deep breath.

"Quatre" I say.

"Yes?"

"I think you need to drink some water."

He chuckles slightly and shakes his head. "It's your birthday and I'm drunk. I'm so sorry Trowa."

I shake my head too, "It's fine."

He keeps moving his head. He puts his glass down and walks back over to me. He looks up to meet my eyes. "Is it?"

I open my mouth, but he push pass me. Bumping my shoulder and causing my beer to spill slightly. He walks to my bedroom, he walks through it and into the bathroom. He shuts the door, I hear the lock turn.

I hear him cough, I hear the toilet flush. I hear him cough again.

I turn off the TV, putting my beer down and walking slowly into my bedroom. I'm tipsy. I don't want to be tipsy.

I open my dresser and pull off my shirt, tossing it into the drawer and searching for some pajamas. I've learned through the years that vomit is a sign the night is over, that's a lesson Duo gave me. Unless of course someone wants to do what is called "puke and rally", which is also a lesson Duo gave me. Neither seem very pleasant in my opinion.

I shuck off my jeans and throw them into the corner of the room, pulling out some plaid pajama bottoms and slipping them on before hearing the lock on the bathroom door click.

The door opens, but Quatre doesn't say anything. I can feel him standing there though, I can feel him watching me.

"Which ones are from the Vayate?"

I turn my head to look at him.

"Are you feeling better?"

He doesn't answer. "Which ones are from the Vayate?"

There was a pause. I turn around to fully face him.

"Quatre?"

"Which scars?"

He stares at me. I stare back.

"Trowa." He says quietly, slowly. "Which scars are from the Vayate explosion?"

I swallow.

Most of them, Quatre.

He shakes his head, his eyes moving down to the floor.

"What was it like, Trowa" he began, "when I almost killed you? What was it like?"

So cold. So lonely and cold.

I shake my head. "Quatre."

"Trowa, sometimes I remember them dying."

"The colonists?"

"Everyone." He shake his head again, stepping forward towards me. I stepped forward too.

"I can hear them screaming. I can feel them dying. One after the other after the other...." he drifts off, swallowing hard. "Sometimes I hear my father, too."

He comes up close to me, and fingers the line of a scar across my shoulder. I shivered.

"Do you forgive me?" he asked slowly.

"I have."

"You haven't"

"You're still drunk."

"I know." He moves closer, the fuzz on his sweater brushed against my torso.

"Do you forgive me?" He asks again.

"Yes."

He shakes his head. "No, no no you don't."

Don't pretend Quatre, don't pretend like I haven't.

He looks back up at me, his eyes sad. His words were barely a whisper.

"I'm so sorry Trowa."

And, leaning in a little closer, he bows his head down and places his lips on my collar bone. They rest there for a heartbeat, they rest there while his fingers trace the scar at my shoulder.

He brings his head back and stares at the spot. He stares like I stare at him. He stares like he once stared at a coffee pot.

He learned to drive.

Maybe he learned to make coffee, too.

He turns his blue eyes back up at me. "I'm going to go sleep on the couch now," he whispers. "I'll be gone when you wake up, though."


	9. Comme Moi

Oh Christ, I'm tired. And I'm SO SORRY for not updating in a really long time. Life has been super crazy (Graduated from college, working full time, moved back to France, then Christmas). But I really hope you all like this chapter. I have just finished writing it at 5:49 am (didn't sleep tonight!) here in France, so in my tired state it is either ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT or the babble of a girl going off the deep-end. Speaking of the deep-end, Quatre has issues and this story is going into a manic area I never wanted it to go to, it sort of has a life of it's own though. So either I will pull Quatre back from the edge or he's tumbling over. Can't decide. So tired. So tired.

Thnx to D and Fox. And please review if you like it. If I'm really just babbling, be gentle!

* * *

I remember when I was little, I use to sit on the balconies with my legs hanging off the side - dangling from the fifth floor and using my palms to balance on the rail as best I could.

No one ever bothered me until one day when my father looked up from the gardens. He yelled at to me to get down, but to do it carefully so to not hurt myself. He panicked and called the servants, telling them to rush over, but not so quickly as to startle me and make me fall. He kept screaming up to me words that were supposed to calm me down, that it was going to be okay and that I shouldn't be scared.

I wanted to tell him that he shouldn't worry about me, that I had never been afraid of falling to begin with. See, I've never really been afraid.

There are certain things, like holding Florien in my lap and looking down from the fifth floor that remind me of how horrified my father must have been. To have seen his only son sitting on the rail of the balcony so many feet above him, resting on his palms like it was the most natural thing he could have done. Sometimes, when I think of those things, I wonder if he loved all my sisters, since he could barely remember their names most of the time. I sometimes wonder if I was the only child my father loved, since I was his wife's son. Most of the time though, I wonder if he loved me at all.

I'm sure he did.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

Would I let Florien be, up on that rail? Just to rest there on his palms like that?

I wonder if he will need to be as fearless as I was.

I hope he can be afraid of things. I hope he will never have to know what it's like to be a hero.

Sometimes when he's sitting with me, I pretend that I'm Zayeed and that Florien is Quatre. That way I can make it all turn out the way it should have been. Sometimes, when I'm having a cigarette, he sits there watching the smoke twirl around my fingers. He stares at me like I'm magic. And sometimes, he sits with Trowa and they watch me together.

Because Florien likes to watch me, because I'm his father, and children idolize their fathers.

And Trowa just likes to watch me.

Sometimes, I make believe Trowa knows what I'm thinking. Because every once-in-a-while, I feel like I know what he's thinking. And because I feel like it would be easier to explain, to make him understand what goes through my head.

Cause I didn't mean to do any of those things.

I didn't mean to try to kill him. I didn't mean to kiss him.

But for some strange reason, I did both of those things. And for some strange reason, I know that no matter how much time Trowa spends staring at me, he still won't read my mind.

And I didn't mean to scare my father. I just thought it was fun.

I can see the way this story is going to end. It's a book I've read too many times, a commercial repeating in my mind, a play in which I try to change the ending. I've played this song, I know this piano. My son is sitting in my lap.

And sometimes, for slivers of time, I forget about Florien. I have to wake myself up again. I have to remind myself that Trowa finding me in my office, with papers snowing all over the floor, with the classical music on so loud it burns, with my tie undone and my eyes sleepy - that isn't life. Life should now be my son, life should be about Florien. Because he's sitting on my lap, and he's flipping through a book, and he's blond like me.

Sometimes, I have to drink a glass of wine so my hands stop shaking and my head stops running. Sometimes when I drink too many glasses I remember Florien's mother. Then I pretend I'm Zayeed. But I don't hate Florien, because Quatre's the one who killed the love of someone's life.

Quatre killed a lot of people, but he didn't mean to do any of that. It was an accident. It was all just a horrible accident.

I work, and I read, and I run, and I drink, and I smoke, and I make music, and I'm a father to my son. And sometimes I feel like I don't sleep. And sometimes I feel like Zayeed. And I hate Zayeed.

I kissed Trowa.

I was drunk. I spent the night on his couch, and I woke up early so I wouldn't have to see him. I wasn't sober, but I drove home anyway. I laid on my bed and thought about how I wanted to stay there all day and smoke and talk. Falling asleep with her on my chest, and waking up to do it all over again.

And my thought back then was, would it have been so bad if Trowa had been in my bed? Would Trowa have been so bad in bed?

No, but she was so soft.

And she had no name.

But neither does Trowa.

I tap my fingertips against the table, Florien squirms in my lap. Trowa is staring at me.

"Quatre?" he says.

No.

"Quatre?" He clears his throat.

My eyes blink towards him. "Hm?"

He looks down at my hand. I curl my fingers and move it off the table slowly.

"I'm just a little stressed."

He nods and sips his coffee. Florien turns the page of his book. I blink and clear my throat. I stare at Trowa for a moment, wondering if I can make him feel the way I do when he watches me. He looks into his mug, he scratches the porcelain.

There is a song stuck in my head.

I put my hand back on the table, sliding it closer towards Trowa's drink. I watch Trowa tap on the porcelain and try to will his hand towards mine. I imagine how it would be if Trowa was here all the time, how he would be with Florien. They get along, Trowa takes him places, watches him sometimes when I'm working. With me he can just speak in French, but Trowa has forced him to learn English. Florien would think it was fun if Trowa was here all the time. I don't think he would even understand _why _Trowa was here.

But I don't think he knows he'll probably never see his mother again, either.

Zayeed would love Florien, or at least he would have if I'd married his mother. For him, Florien would have needed to be provided for and then kept secret. That being said, the whole situation would only further prove how much of a black-mark I was to his name.

I was planning on leaving the company to one of my sister's children. Florien was unexpected. But so was kissing Trowa.

I guess technically they were both accidents.

"Quatre?"

No.

I look up again. Trowa is still staring. He's always staring.

"You alright?"

No.

I nod my head. "Yes, I'm fine."

I get the feeling he doesn't believe me. He looks back at his coffee.

I swallow. "Why do you ask?"

He scratches the porcelain. "You didn't even seem to notice Florien leaving."

I look down on my lap. It's true, he left. I shake my head.

"When did he leave?"

"Just a moment ago."

"Where did he go?"

His shoulders shrug, "his room I think. His English confuses me sometimes."

I nod. His teachers have been telling me the same thing. I reach out and sip on my red wine. It's barely afternoon, but I didn't sleep last night. I'd been up at all hours - my brain strangely buzzing in the back of my skull. At my computer, listening to music, and writing and writing and writing.

"Quatre."

"Yes?"

He puts his coffee down again and takes a deep breath. He's not going to say that he's worried about me, that he feels as if he needs to check if I'm still there. But that's okay, because I know what he's thinking anyways. I can always read him, even if he can't read me.

I stand up and finish my glass. And when I open my mouth, French comes out. And I tell Trowa I'm shaking, and I tell him I don't sleep.

"I don't understand you".

Clearly.

"I mean, I don't speak French."

I place my hands on the back of my chair and lean towards him, meeting his eye and trying to say to him sentences I can't even form in my head. The words don't exist.

Not in Arabic.

Not in English.

Not in Russian, Japanese, Latin, or Spanish.

Not in French.

And I suddenly feel as if, maybe if I were to touch him again, maybe then - maybe?

What would Zayeed say?

Trowa stands up, rounding the table to stand in front of me. He clears his throat and inches his head down to meet my eyes. I'm shaking and I don't sleep, I tell him this time in Arabic.

He shakes his head, "I don't understand you."

In Russian.

"English Quatre"

I shake my head. Latin

"Quatre"

No. Not English, I can't. You won't understand.

"I can't understand now. Please Quatre, English."

I shake my head, faster this time. I take a step toward him and he straightens up, my hands rest on his shoulders and I reach - trying to stretch my body. I try to be tall.

I kiss him. His hands stay and his sides, his mouth opens. My hands go behind his ears and I lean into him. I feel tiny and fragile. He's tall. My nails dig into his skin, I want to make a mark - and I want it to stay.

I'm breathing heavily and push harder into him. There is nothing for him to fall back on, he stands his ground.

I'm tiny and fragile and he's tall and I don't like it. I bite his lip, he breathes in and brings his head down to me. His hands still rest at his sides. I dig my nails deeper, I bite harder.

And then, for reasons I don't quite understand, I pull away. My hands drop and I stare at him. I reach to the table and grab the wine bottle, I take a sip. His eyes don't blink.

Mine do. And I see the things I never seem to forget, the pictures just under the surface of my brain. I close my eyes and can barely think fast enough for the words to form.

Balconies, deserts, sweaty sheets, hands, smoke, wine, her voice, Florien, green

"Quatre?"

Green, green, green.

"Quatre?"

My eyes open and I stare. "The piano Trowa"

"What about it?"

I blink, "It's all I know."

He shakes his head. "You're not making any sense."

I nod. I hear the thump of the wine bottle on the table and it somehow comes to me that I must have put it down. I breathe and look at Trowa. He looks confused, he looks scared.

It was all an accident. Do you understand that now?

I shake my head again, my hand touches my mouth. I turn and walk away. I watch my feet as they move across the floor. I trip but don't fall and keep going. I wash my face in the bathroom and when I look in the mirror I can see Trowa at the door.

"Quatre?"

"What?"

"I think you should stop drinking."

I swallow and start counting in my head, the numbers are in Arabic. I nod.

"I think you're right Trowa."


	10. La Foule

I'm sorry to all my readers for being a huge failure and not posting for over a year. It's been a rough 16 months and I've had no creativity. I pretty much forced myself to write this one, so I hope you like it and it doesn't read like total shit.

Thanks,

Kat

* * *

We hadn't been at the party for long before she was introduced to the crowd. A middle aged man came up to us and began speaking hurriedly in French, Quatre pointed out kindly that I only speak English.

"Ah, excuse me!" the Frenchman said genuinely, "I haven't spoken English in some time. I hope you will be able to understand."

I tilted my head towards him, he smiled.

"I was just about to be telling your..." he motioned to Quatre, "friend an amazing story about my daughter."

"Yes, Virginie?"

The Frenchman shook his head "No no Mr. Winner, my other daughter."

Quatre took a drink of wine. He looked down for a moment before he swallowed, then he took a deep breathe.

"Your other daughter?"

"Yes, if you remember...?"

I leaned my head down and took a drink from my own glass. I doubt Quatre ever forgot, I doubt he ever stopped remembering.

He wants to keep Florien tied to his "homeland", as Quatre once said. That, as a child who was lucky enough to be born anywhere on Earth, Florien should spend as much time there as possible.

I have often said that Quatre knows I'd follow him to the ends of the Earth, yet somehow I found returning to France to be difficult.

And I know why, of course.

We've been taking Florien to parks where he can play with children who share his native language. He takes Florien's hand and walks with him through the _Jardin des Tuileries_, explaining to him points of history as we make our way closer to the _Seine_. He switches between English and French and has begun speaking in Arabic from time to time. Sometimes I'll take Florien around the corner to the boulangerie for bread or maybe walk with him until we find a particular store he's interested in. He still walks around with his brown rabbit. He still asks questions about his mother.

Sometimes, he'll even ask me.

"Trowa. What happened to _Maman_?"

We were sitting on a park bench sharing some strawberries the first time I heard the question. I cleared my throat.

"Well," I began after a moment, "you should probably ask your father."

Florien held a strawberry in his hand, he looked at it intently and ran a finger down the side. "_Papa_ never answers."

"Doesn't he?"

He turned to look up at me, his brows close together and his lips pouted. He threw his strawberry on the ground, tugged at his brown sweater, fingered the laces on his black leather shoes

"_Non_," he said "Papa never answers."

I know that, because Quatre rarely answers questions he doesn't like to hear. He's very good at ignoring things.

If I asked him why he couldn't move on from her, he would never answer me. If I asked him why he kissed me, he would do it again.

Duo and Heero came to France with us this time under the guise of work. I'm sure Duo just wanted a vacation and was more than happy to do it on Quatre's dollar. He's been spending time playing with Florien, who likes how he jokes and the endless supply of sweets he provides. Heero likes having him there for obvious reasons. Quatre enjoys the company of someone who's talkative for a change.

Personally, I wish Duo would just leave.

When we were fighting, Quatre would often stare at his own hands. I was busy staring at him. Not much has changed.

Six months after reappearing from Quatre's two year cocaine addiction, Duo leaned over my shoulder to tell me how our friend had been involved in multiple affairs which centered mainly around sex and drug use.

This time around he has been busy getting me alone, trying to gather whatever information he can about Quatre. He's as intrigued with Florien as anyone else is, and almost as curious about his mother as Quatre is obsessed. I've been fairly descent at removing myself from the situation, but Duo has been surprising me more than usual.

"Quatre told me he kissed you," he said to me at a café one afternoon. We'd been waiting for Quatre, who had taken Heero and Florien to _le Louvre_ for the afternoon. I stared into my espresso for a moment before taking a deep breath and raising my head. He was looking at me, a cheerful glint in his eye and half smile on his face.

I swallowed. "When did he say that to you?"

Duo smiled. "When I asked him of course."

I didn't respond, so Duo continued.

"I asked him if he'd kissed you yet, and he said he had. Twice."

I nodded once.

"How do you feel about that?"

I kept my eyes locked on Duo's for a moment, and wondered if he could read my mind like Quatre can - like Florien can. I wondered if he would respond for me, continuing the conversation as if my opinion had already been assumed.

He shook his head. "Okay, forget I asked."

Duo is not Quatre. He continued.

"I wouldn't tell Quatre what you thought of it anyways", he took a sip of espresso. "I'd just let him know we'd had a conversation. He'd come right to you after that."

I took a sip as well.

"It's not like he doesn't know."

I lifted my head again. "Know what?"

Duo snorted. "Really?"

I stared.

He shook his head and motioned to the waitress for the bill.

"If you don't know by this point," he said throwing money on the table, "I can't help you."

It interested me for sometime afterwards that Duo assumed I didn't think Quatre knew. Quatre has always known.

Since the moment he told me not to surrender to him. Since I helped him bury a body in the middle of the night. Since he touched my scars from the Vayate. Quatre has always known. He has always known, and he has never forgotten.

I don't think Quatre's forgotten a thing in his life.

Not my birthday.

Not the Vayate.

Not his father.

Not the piano.

Not Padam.

Quatre has a long memory.

The night we were invited to the party, he won't forget that either.

I say we but really, of course, it was him who was granted an invitation. Of course, I'm only his security personnel.

"You remember my daughter?" the Frenchman had asked.

"Yes, Virginie?" Quatre responeded.

"No no Mr. Winner, my other daughter" the Frenchman continued.

"Your other daughter?" said Quatre.

"Yes, you remember...?"

And Quatre did not answer, because Quatre never forgot. Instead, he looks in his wine and closes his eyes. Duo's voice is there, speaking to the Frenchman.

"And where would your daughter be?" he asks with his hand on the Frenchman's back. Duo shoots a look in my direction, at Quatre, at the people behind us.

"Why, just there." The Frenchman points to a woman ahead of us. Quatre's eyes open.

Her shoulders are bare. Her brown curls hang from her clip. Her earrings are long and silver. Her dress black. She is laughing. She is so close.

There is broken glass and wine on the floor, black shoes that turn and walk quickly away. Quatre picks up Florien, they're gone a moment later.

I don't catch up with him until he's already back at the apartment. I leave my coat wet in the entry way. The door to Florien's room is open. The light is on. He's sitting on the floor looking at a book. At the end of the hall Quatre is in his room. The door is closed.

"Florien, what's your father doing?"

Florien looks up and closes his book. He shrugs.

"What are you doing out here alone?"

He points to his book. I look at my watch, it's late.

I move to his dresser, opening the top drawer and taking out some pajamas. "It's time to go to bed" I tell him.

He stands up and walks over to me. His shoes are still on. He yawns and holds up his arms. I help him take off his tuxedo and hand him his pajamas.

"I'm sleepy Trowa."

I close his closet door. "Do you feel cranky?"

"_Non_," he pulls his shirt over his head. "_Papa_ usually helps me into bed."

I pull back his comforter, his bed is large. He must feel small in it when he's alone.

I read him a story. I turn off the light.

The light peeking from under Quatre's door fades when certain shadowed steps walk by. He's pacing.

"Quatre?" I hear myself call out. My breath feels hot, he doesn't respond.

"Quatre?" I say again. There is a thud on the other side of the door, I can hear his deep sigh.

"_Sort_" He says.

"What?"

"_Sort. S'il te plait_ Trowa. Leave me alone."

Air goes in shaky through my nose. "Are you okay?"

"_Il faut que tu part._"

"I don't understand Quatre."

"_Je peux pas..._"

"You can't...?" My hand touches the door knob. _Je peux pas_. I can't.

"J_e peux pas..._"

"Quatre," my hand turns the knob. I push but the door doesn't move.

"Trowa," My name sounds quiet in his voice. "Trowa." He whispers through the door. "All I see is green."

I push the handle again, "What is green Quatre?"

"And water, it's so beautiful."

"Green water?"

"No. _Tu ne comprendes pas_."

Another push on the door. "What are you talking about Quatre?"

"Green. I see green."

I push again. "Quatre open this door."

"And this music. The water."

I push harder, the door bounces against it's lock. "Quatre there is no music. Open this door."

And suddenly there is music. Loud piano, singing. Edith. Violins. Drums. Padam. Trumpets. I push the door again. It bounces. I knock it with my fists.

"Quatre."

Just Edith.

"Quatre open this door."

Just Padam.

I grab the handle. "Quatre" I slam punch the frame. "Quatre open this door!"

Just the piano. Just the drums and trumpets.

"QUATRE"

The lock clicks. Edith is singing. I open the door.

Quatre is at the desk. There is a bottle in front of him.

"I wasn't going to kill myself Trowa. My son is here."

I swallow. It hurts to breathe.

"I wasn't going to kill myself Trowa." he repeats. "My son is here."

I let out air. My face suddenly feels wet, my lips taste salty. He comes closer, leans into my chest.

"I wasn't going to kill myself Trowa," he whispers next to my lips. "My son is here."

His hand winds behind my neck and brings me too him. My eyes close and his don't. My mouth opens. He breathes into me, he tastes like wine.

He bites my lip.

"It was all an accident," he murmurs. His fingers are at my belt. "Do you get it Trowa?" My belt is on the floor. "It was all an accident." His fingers are on my skin. "I didn't mean to do any of it."

And then he kisses me. And he tastes like wine.

He's drunk.


End file.
